The Way of the Sea

 The ice is out at Sebago, and
The merest ripple of ephemerality,
Colorless in starlight, pellucid and spectral,
Reflecting nothing where there is nothing,
In the depths, the schema of your face,
Eyeless, floating on dark water,
Fades as it must, and is finally forgotten.

Turning, I will go by the Way of the Sea,
Where the dogwood sings in white and pink
At the dooryard of the settled peoples,
Leaving you alone in the wilderness
Weeping over the Saxon conquest,
The sack of Rome, and other ancient grief,
Where all things die, in the desert.

With thanks (and apologies) To Edwin O’Connor

January 2020